


Take Refuge in a Young Man's Pleasure

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Series: A Truth So Loud We Can't Ignore [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Exile, HP: EWE, Harry Potter is a teacher, M/M, Minor Scorpius Malfoy/Albus Severus Potter, Muggle Technology, Paris (City), Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 10:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6902275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter teaches Muggle Studies at Hogwarts, and his students Al Potter and Scorpius Malfoy (the best of friends) approach him about helping Scorpius' father, who's been exiled from the UK since the end of the Wizarding War.</p><p>If you're interested, Al and Scorpius were born circa 2004, would have begun Hogwarts in 2017 and finished in 2024.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Leave It

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Glompfest on LJ, for a prompt. They'd also asked for a subplot of Scorp/Al, and it's in here just a tiny bit. 
> 
> If you like this, Subscribe to me as an author, and this summer there'll be a prequel to this fic. It's already written and ready to go for a Rare Pairs fest on LJ :D
> 
> The title comes from a song by YES, called Leave It (aka, one down, one to go)

Two students whispered furiously in the back of the classroom; Harry tried to teach through the buzzing of their angry voices, but lost track of where he was in his explanation of Snapchat and Instagram.

Harry clapped his hands, but even that didn’t grab their attention. The class grew silent as Harry left the front and stalked down the center aisle of the room.

“You have to tell my dad,” Albus hissed. “He can do something.”

“He can’t. And my father would—” Scorpius’ hands were balled in fists on their shared desk.

“Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Potter. Enough.” Harry barked at the two boys as he clamped his hands on their shoulders. “See me after class.”

Nervous whispers ran through the room, and Harry couldn’t fight it. He’d already lost their attention. And it was hard enough convincing them that Muggle Studies had any relevance to their lives. Now that they thought he was going to ream his two “favorites,” he’d never get them back.

“Let’s just end here. Don’t forget your homework. I want you to use your mobiles and send me your Snapchat story on Sunday night. Three pictures at least,” Harry called, talking to their backs as they hit the hallway, happy to have the mid-May weekend start sooner than they’d expected.

Scorpius and Albus hadn’t moved, likely hadn’t noticed Harry’d dismissed class. Their foreheads almost touched as their voices rose.

“Ok, you two.” Harry softened his voice. “Whatever it is, we can figure it out.” They looked up at Harry, and for the first time, he saw their posture ease. Scorpius almost smiled.

“Come for dinner. We’ll talk about whatever it is after that.” Harry dropped a kiss on Al’s head before his son could complain that he was too old. “Come whenever. Dinner won’t take long to make.”

The two boys— _young men,_ Harry thought. _In almost a month they’d be leaving Hogwarts_ —gathered their books and left, still whispering. Occasionally, their shoulders bumped. Harry watched them leave, wondering what tonight might reveal about the boys and their friendship.

 

~*~

Harry tasted the lamb curry simmering on the hob. He added more chili powder and balanced the lid half over the pan. The boys would arrive soon. Seeing his kids all the time was a wonderful perq of this job, as was living in Hogwarts.

When Headmistress McGonagall offered Harry the Muggle Studies position 10 years ago, he’d negotiated for one of the larger suites in the castle. He moved Ginny and the kids in, knowing they’d love it. 

They didn’t love it.

Within 6 months, he lived alone in the large flat. Ginny had moved to the Burrow, and he saw his children two weekends a month—if their schedules allowed. 

Within a year they were divorced.

Once James, then Albus, and Lily came to Hogwarts, it was easier. Although the kids lived in their dorms, they thought of Harry’s flat as theirs. They visited him for tea or supper like he, Ron, and Hermione had visited Hagrid.

In truth, he was happier than he had a right to be. Hogwarts was more of a home to him than he’d ever had; he felt like the castle reached out and embraced him each time he returned. In its arms he felt protected and loved.

Harry debated a drink, whether he would need a clear head or liquid courage, since he had no idea what the boys would say. Before he could decide, the door to the flat banged open and the two boys tumbled through. 

Harry welcomed them and shook their hands, acting extremely formal. 

“What’s going on?” Al asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Nothing.” Harry tried to look innocent but gave up and pulled Al into a fake wrestling hold. 

“Who's your favorite teacher?” Harry tightened his pretend hold around his son’s neck and wrestled him to the couch on the lounge. Scorpius stood aside, laughing at his best friend’s aggravation.

“Professor Grubbly-Plank. I love magical creatures.” Al half-laughed and half-gasped as he worked to get away. 

“Wrong. On so many levels. And I'm telling Hagrid. Try again.”

Albus gurgled an answer, pulling on Harry’s arm wrapped around his neck.

“What do you think, Scorpius? Who's his favorite teacher?” Harry grinned as he ruffled Al’s hair, which he knew Al hated.

“Sir, _my_ favorite teacher is our Savior, The Chosen One, Professor Harry Potter.” Scorpius’ face ached from grinning.

“I'm done with both of you.” Harry released Albus with a fake huff. “No respect for professors,” he grumbled as he pulled bowls and silverware from the cabinets as the boys still laughed. “You can at least set the table.”

Scorpius took the bowls, bumping against Al whenever they were next to each other. 

Harry watched them as he placed a basket of homemade naan on the table and ladled the curry into bowls. Albus tucked into his dinner immediately, but Scorpius hesitated.

“Thank you for inviting me to dinner, Sir—”

“Scorpius, you’re practically family. You are welcome here with or without one of my children.” He smiled and watched Albus’ face as he said it. A faint blush rose up his neck; Harry suspected Albus was holding Scorpius’ hand under the table.

Harry wanted to blurt out, _Are you two together?_ But he didn’t want to meddle. Instead, Harry asked about the Slytherin Quidditch team and their classes, how they were progressing toward their NEWTs which were in two short weeks.

“I’ll be okay, Dad. I have Scorpius and Rosie.” Albus grinned at Scorpius, who stared at his dinner. “I couldn’t step out of line if I wanted to.”

“You’re lucky to have such good friends,” Harry said as he cleared the table. “I wish I’d had friends like that.”

Albus snorted. “I’ll tell Rosie you said that. I’m sure Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione will want to know.”

“Your Aunt got me and Uncle Ron out of more trouble…” Harry placed the dishes in the sink for later. “You owe her your life, Al. If it wasn’t for her, Ron and I wouldn’t have made it out of first year alive.”

Scorpius laughed politely, and Albus whispered something to him.

“You didn’t come here for old war stories.” Harry ushered them to the lounge. “What can I do?”

Al and Scorpius spoke quietly and decided Scorpius would begin. “I need a favor, Sir.” He swallowed hard, and Albus whispered again. 

Harry assessed his own body language (shoulders relaxed, holding tea mug not gripping it, smiling) to make sure he didn’t appear threatening. 

Scorpius wrung his hands as he spoke. “Sir, I hope you can help. I know you and my father didn’t get along at Hogwarts—” 

Harry’s warm laughter interrupted Scorpius, who sat back into the sofa. “That’s the understatement of the century,” Harry said, his eyes wide and kind. “He bugged me from the first time we met, and it was downhill from there.”

_Eleven-year old Harry’d fidgeted, out of place in Madam Malkin’s. His stomach rolled and lurched at the money he’d spent; the robes, cauldrons, books—it was more than he’d spent in his entire life. And next to him stood a young man, not a boy, but someone who’d grown up in luxury and privilege. He’d never wanted for anything. Posh accent, tailored clothing. His hands looked smooth and manicured. He looked elegant--and beautiful. Harry pressed his own fingers against themselves, feeling the callouses from bacon burns and years of yard work._

_Harry’d wanted to take the boy’s offered hand, to be his friend, and something else that he couldn’t name at that time. But he’d refused and set them on a path of anger, humiliation, and violence._

Harry blew across the top of his tea mug, buying time to watch Albus and Scorpius. It took Harry by surprise the first time he’d seen Scorpius. He was almost an exact copy of Draco, down to the white hair. But Scorpius was softer around the edges. His hair fell loose, a bit too long and shaggy. He laughed easily and teased quickly. And his eyes. When Scorpius looked at Al, his eyes sparkled with life.

And Al? He looked at Scorpius like he created all of the Earth and Heaven and everything good within it.

“I didn’t mean to shut you down, Scorpius. Go on.” Harry sipped his tea and watched Al rub Scorpius’s back, small circles of encouragement.

Something transpired silently between Scorpius and Al. This time, Al spoke. “Scorp and his father need your help, Dad. Since his trial, Mr. Malfoy’s not allowed back in the UK. And it’s our last year at Hogwarts, and you know Scorp is a finalist in the Potions competition, and if he wins, his dad can’t even be here...” Al’s voice trailed off as he looked to Scorpius.

“Could you help my Dad?” Scorpius smiled at Al, who finally sat back.

Harry finished his tea and placed his mug on the coffee table in front of him. He looked up at the boys, his mouth set in a straight line. “I don’t know if I can.”

Scorpius drooped in front of Harry, and Harry suspected he’d been their last hope. “You need a Wizengamot scholar, and you need someone your dad can trust. I’m neither of those things.”

Al whispered to Scorpius, who nodded. “Dad, you--”

Harry held his hand up to stop his son. “It’s not that I won’t help you, Scorpius. I just don’t think your father would want my help. But Aunt Hermione’s brilliant when it comes to Wizengamot decisions, and she’s got a lot of influential friends.” Harry handed Scorpius his iPhone. “Text her and ask for her help. She’ll say yes.”

Scorpius fumbled with the device, then handed it to Albus who quickly typed a message to his aunt and sent it off. 

Harry shoved the phone into his back pocket. He’d check with Hermione in a bit. “It’s almost curfew, you two, and it’s a long way to the Slytherin dorm.” Harry led the boys to the door. “You’re right, Scorpius. This isn’t fair. Your dad should be here.” He shook Scorpius’ hand before pulling him into a hug. “I owe my life to your dad and grandmother. I’ll do what I can.”

Albus hugged Harry, taking him by surprise. It had been years since Albus had wanted anything except a handshake. “Don’t worry, Al. Aunt Hermione will know what to do.”

When he closed the door after warning them not to dally, Harry leaned against it for a moment, thinking about how the war had changed them all. He wasn’t who he was when he started Hogwarts. Or when he spent a year chasing Horcruxes. Or even when he and Ginny divorced. 

Why should he think Malfoy was still that pallid snob who’d looked down his nose at the ragged boy in too large clothes? Seemed to Harry that 30 years was long enough to hold onto anger. He took his mobile from his back pocket and sent a follow up text to Hermione, giving a little background and asking for her help. For the boys.


	2. One More Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry arranges to meet Draco.

Harry fought out of the nightmare, gasping, struggling to get away from both the creature and the dream. Heart pounding, he forced his eyes open and scrabbled to his knees in his bed, grabbing whatever he could reach to help fight the creature. His chest heaved, and he knew if he vomited, it would find him by the stench of rot. A _tick-tap tick-tap tick-tap_ sounded like Aragog’s pincers, and with acid rising up his throat, Harry stood on the mattress.

“ _Accio_ wand.”

With a quick _Lumos,_ Harry’s wand tip lit up. He threw the light around the room, searching the dark corners for evil.

 _His_ bedroom in _his_ flat at Hogwarts. No Aragog. No creature pulling him through the ice in the forest lake. The buzzing was his panic, swirling around him, in his ears, his throat, his mind.

Harry collapsed on the bed and with the corner of a sheet, wiped his sweaty face. By rote, he counted to twenty slowly, focusing only on his in-and-out breaths. Do it again. And again. Until his heart returned to almost normal instead of a wild tattoo banged out by a military drummer. He’d dreamt about travelling with Hermione the winter Ron had left them. He was 17 again, suffocating under the pressure of saving the world, failure and depression eroding any hope he had, and he’d been too happy to have the creature hold him at the bottom of the pond. With his first gulp of water instead of air, Harry fought back. Jesus, it had been years since he’d had that nightmare.

It must have been from talking about Hogwarts and Malfoy.

The _tick-tap tick-tap tick-tap_ returned, and this time, when Harry pointed the wand around the room, he saw a large owl with a huge wingspan at his window. His bedside clock read 4:30 am. Who the fuck owls before dawn?

Slowly regaining use of his unsteady arms and legs, Harry opened the window for the owl, letting the cool pre-dawn air into the room. He gave the owl a treat in exchange for the letter, and when the owl flew out, Harry returned to the warmth of his bed. He didn’t recognize the handwriting on the envelope, but when he tore it open and scanned the letter, he knew. Only Malfoy would owl someone before sunrise.

**Potter**

**Scorpius told me he’d spoken with you about our situation. He seems to think you can help; I doubt it, but I’ve exhausted all other avenues. If you like, I stop at Café Loustic each morning at 10 for my first espresso of the day. It’s a Wizard café. Use your Ask Merlin to find the address.**

**M.**

 

Harry laughed out loud in the quiet of his bedroom. Only Malfoy would ask him for a favor while denigrating his character, and then make Harry work to find him while mocking Harry’s job. He read it once more and laughed harder.

This was either going to be a clusterfuck or the most brilliant thing he’d ever done.

~*~

Harry’d arrived ten minutes early to Café Loustic, determined to be there before Malfoy. A quick survey of the patrons told Harry he’d succeeded.

When it was his turn to order, he asked for a flat white like he did at the London Starbucks. The man (dimples and freckles, a dangerous combination) tsk’d him with a generous smile and taught Harry how to say _caffé latte with a double shot ristretto_ in French.

“Théo, must you flirt with _every_ English man who comes in?”

Harry recognized that bored drawl even though it had been 25 years. Deeper now with the soft lilt of switching from French to English. Harry’s body shivered at the familiar cadence combined with something new. 

It wasn’t the response to Malfoy he’d expected.

Maybe anger. Definitely irritation. Not a flutter in his chest that seemed to be making its way lower.

Harry turned and followed the voice to a gentleman tucked into the sunny corner, flat cap pulled low on his forehead. He’d seen the man, appreciated the broad shoulders, wide chest, his taste in clothing; possibly had a fleeting thought about chatting him up. 

Never would have guessed he was Malfoy.

With his coffee in hand, Harry wound his way through the tight spaces to the corner table. Draco removed his cap and ran his fingers through his hair, worn short but loose, not slicked back as he had kept it. Draco stood and offered his hand.

Harry took this Draco in. He looked older, but not weary. He had no wrinkles. No hint of gray. His skin had tanned gently, more likely from daily walks rather than working outside. His Muggle clothes were impressive; Harry assumed they were a French designer, tailored to him. 

At 43, Harry could admit he’d fancied Draco when they were at Hogwarts. Might’ve even tossed off a few times to Quidditch locker room fantasies of Draco furiously stalking into the Gryffindor locker room and finding Harry in the shower--. That thought made his cock jump, press uncomfortably against jeans. Young Draco was good-looking, but the man before him was handsome, sure of himself. Fucking. Hot. 

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter. Either shake my hand or sit down,” Draco hissed at Harry. “People are staring.”

Ruffled, Harry shook Draco’s hand and then sat down. He felt wrong-footed, awkward, common. How he’d always felt around Draco. 

Draco sat down, and without guile, appraised Harry. “You look good, Potter. Less scrawny now that you’ve added some weight. I see that your hair won’t cooperate any better than it had, but at least you’ve changed those glasses to something slightly more stylish.”

Harry clenched his teeth, anger flashing at Malfoy’s smart mouth. _I’m not a kid. Don’t act like a kid_ , Harry reminded himself. “How do you do that?” Harry asked instead, forcing a smile as he picked up his coffee.

Draco straightened up, his eyes wider. “Do what?”

“Compliment me and slap me down in the same sentence.” Harry laughed, at ease now. He would meet Draco as an adult, not a child. “I wasn’t sure what to expect from you. Your owl at stupid o’clock and your _charming_ letter almost threw me off.” Harry leaned forward, pushing his cup and saucer to the side. He looked into Draco’s eyes, the gray-blue like an angry ocean. “I’m not 17, Draco, and neither are you. I’m not going to fall back into old patterns.”

Draco pressed his back against the wooden slats of the chair. He relaxed his arms that he’d had crossed tight against his chest. Looking into Harry’s eyes, Draco nodded and then smiled. “Fair point.”

Harry’s smile grew at the acknowledgement. He might actually like this Draco.

“To be fair—” Draco pushed the empty cup away. “I sent the owl when I woke up, not to piss you off. That was just an added benefit.”

Harry’s belly laugh drew irritated looks from other customers, used to a more sedate clientele at that hour of the morning. He placed his mobile on the table and said, “As we talk, I’m going to text Hermione so she’ll have the information faster.”

Draco hadn’t heard a word; he focused his attention on Harry’s mobile. “Is that one of your Muggle devices Scorpius is always talking about?”

“Yes. Apple has a few Wizards at its highest corporate levels, and we convinced them to try a smartphone specially made for the Wizarding community, a 6w.” Harry showed Draco the lock screen. It was his favorite picture of Albus and Scorpius in their Slytherin Quidditch robes. Scorpius held the Snitch triumphantly in the air while Albus jumped on his back in celebration.

“That’s incredible.” Draco traced the screen with his finger. “He looks so happy. I don’t think I was ever _that_ happy at Hogwarts.”

Harry reached out to touch Draco’s wrist, to say something useless, like, _we were too busy being adults._ He thought better of it and slipped the mobile from Draco’s hand. He just nodded and swallowed hard. With a sigh, Harry began a question about Draco’s appeal.

“Oh, no. This is going to take caffeine, Potter.” Draco eyed his empty cup and then back up to Harry, as if those two items were linked.

Harry grumbled under his breath and worked his way back up to the counter. He realized too late that he had no idea what to order. He stuttered, but Théo winked and produced a Chocolat chaud.

“Potter, get us something to snack on.” Draco’s voice rose over the noise of the growing crowd.

“I don’t know if he means _us_ like he’s royalty or if I’m allowed to have some, too,” Harry huffed to Théo, who laughed as he placed a generous portion of banana bread on the tray with Draco’s drink.

When Harry slid the mug from the tray, Draco’s smile lit up. “Théo. Marry me. For Merlin’s sake, I’m ready to beg.” 

Harry turned to look at Théo, who shook his head as he laughed. He called back something in French and the people around them laughed.

“What? What did he say?” Harry sat down and slid his chair closer to Draco’s, hoping for some privacy in the tight space.

“Loosely translated, he said I’m old enough to be his Papa, but _you_ are just the right age for me.” A blush crept up over the rolled neck of Draco’s sweater, and he hid his face in his mug.

Harry looked over his shoulder. Young, fit, dark hair, light eyes, Théo looked like the male models in the magazines Lily left lying around. Harry could see why Draco was interested, why he’d blushed at Théo’s words.

“Have you been seeing him long?” Harry asked as he stirred his coffee, wondering what the uncomfortable sensation in his chest meant.

“Who? Théo? Merlin, Potter, don’t you listen? I’m old enough to be his father. He flirts with me because he’s French and owns his own coffee shop and I’m a regular. It’s what they do.” Draco laughed loud enough to draw several stares. “Besides. I prefer my men older than that. What about you, Potter? Is he _your_ type?” Draco grinned, and Harry suspected he’d been trying to trip him up.

Harry cleared his throat and pushed his fringe out of his eyes. His text alert sounded, rescuing Harry before he said something stupid. “Hermione wants to know why we’re taking so long to send any messages.”

When Harry looked up, Draco’s eyes were narrowed, focused on Harry.

“What? What did I do wrong this time?” Harry asked, wiping his nose with his paper napkin in case something were trying to escape.

“You’re an idiot. Ask me your stupid questions.” Draco smiled and slouched in his chair. The morning sunshine poured through the window, bathing Draco in light.

Harry tried not to stare, but Draco looked at peace, tranquil. Young. “You look happy, Draco.”

“What did you expect, Potter? That I spent the last 25 years awash in vitriol?” Draco remained sprawled in the chair, but Harry saw the new tension is Draco’s jaw, in the tone of his voice.

Dammit. He’d gotten it wrong again. Harry decided for forge ahead without any small talk. “Tell me what you’ve done so far.” Harry picked up his mobile, ready to text Hermione.

“After you spoke on our behalf, the Wizengamot decided that Mother and I weren’t guilty enough to be sent to Azkaban. Instead, they exiled us from England.” Draco twisted the paper napkin into a thin spiral and dragged it through the hot chocolate left on his spoon.

He took Harry through their 25-year journey. Narcissa and Draco settled in Paris in 1998, leaving behind most of their belongings, insisting on a clean beginning. At the end of the first year, their petition to have the decision overturned was denied by form letter. At the end of five years, they were denied again.

At the end of 10 years, he’d hoped enough time had passed that the Wizengamot might show mercy. This time, Draco sent Narcissa’s death certificate as well as his marriage license to Astoria Malfoy (née Greengrass) and the birth certificate of his son. He sent letters from his landlord and his boss extolling his virtues. That time the denial was at least personalized.

He petitioned again in 2017, all but begging to be allowed on Platform 9 ¾ when Scorpius left for his first year at Hogwarts. Astoria also wrote on Draco’s behalf; although they’d been divorced for 10 years, she believed a boy needed his father.

“That time, the Wizengamot counsel contacted me personally to ask me to stop inquiring.” Draco piled the now-shredded napkin into a small pyramid. Harry had watched the pile grow, watched the vein in Draco’s jaw throb. “It’s been 26 years. I’m over 40. I was a shite child. But I’m a good person, Potter. I work, pay my bills. I volunteer. I have no record. I just want to see Scorpius at Hogwarts, especially if he wins the Potions prize. I’d like to bury my mother in England. I’d like to be free to come and go.”

Harry’d texted the information to Hermione as Draco spun out his story. She’d asked questions, and after two hours at the café, Hermione ended the text session. She’d update as soon as she had any information. 

“Merlin’s beard, Potter. You talk too much.” Draco placed their empty cups on the tray along with the napkin shreds. He returned them to Théo, who whispered in French and smiled at Harry.

“What?” Harry asked with a smile. “Does he want my number?” He raised his eyebrows and smiled.

Draco bit back a laugh as he shook his head. “First, he’s a wizard. He doesn’t have a mobile. Second. Again. You’re old enough to be his father. And do you even date men?”

“I’m an equal opportunity dater.” Harry stood and pushed the chairs back to the table. “Although recently, mostly men, although I am extremely private about my relationships. And you? Since your divorce?”

“It was always only men for me.” Draco removed his linen blazer from the back of his chair, and Harry suspected Draco was debating whether to finish his thought. “I did love Astoria, and I thought maybe we could make it work. But we couldn’t.”

Draco checked the time. “ _Merde._ I have to go. I need the proper daylight. Owl me when you hear from Hermione.”

Draco dashed to the fireplace, pushing chairs out of the way, and in a splash of emerald powder, he Floo’d out.

Harry watched him leave, then returned to their table in the sunny corner. He tried to text Hermione some ideas but erased them. Hermione would be brilliant with this; she didn’t need his input.

Instead, he opened the email program and began typing questions he needed to remember to ask Malfoy. The actual dates he’d sent his petitions. Why hadn’t he sent Scorpius to _Beauxbatons?_ Where did Scorpius live during the summer? 

Harry stopped to think, and then added more questions. Was Draco re-married? Did he have a steady partner? Was he in love?

Harry felt odd, a fluttering in his stomach, a racing pulse as he typed the questions. _Must be from all the French coffee._ He pressed _send_ and apparated home.


	3. You're Not Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry receives an unexpected invitation

**Meeting with you today wasn’t as horrible as I expected. You’re not as big a git as you used to be.**

Harry held out one of his few remaining treats to Malfoy’s owl, who gobbled it greedily. “Wait here a mo. I have get out of these clothes.” 

Malfoy’s owl watched Harry, waiting for direction.

Still chuckling at the post-coffee note, Harry stripped off his Gryffindor Quidditch coaching kit, dropping it in a sweaty heap by the washer. He’d been late for practice, having sat too long in the café after Malfoy left. He’d paid for it, too. The team had fined Harry five laps around the pitch for being tardy. 

He loved coaching. Being in the thick of the practice, pretending to be an opposing teammate while yelling out strategies. But each practice reminded him that his body wasn’t 15 any longer. Tonight he’d probably need a hot bath, as much to soak his sore muscles as to clean off the more stubborn dirt. 

“What’s your name, huh?” Harry scratched the owl’s head. Wearing only his pants, he sat down at the desk, his sweaty body tacky against the wooden chair and dashed off a note before giving it to the owl and sending it on its way.

 

_Malfoy,_

_It was good to see you, too. If you’re going to send this owl every day, can I at least know her name?_

 

Harry didn’t really expect a response, but when he returned to his flat after dinner in the Great Hall, he saw the owl snoozing on his windowsill. He opened the window, took the letter, and the owl hopped inside and waited while Harry read. 

 

**I know you’re going to laugh, so telling you not to is useless. Her name is Tweety Bird. Scorpius named her. We spent a bit in the US, and he found cartoons. I know it’s ridiculous. But _you’re_ not allowed to say that.**

 

Harry stifled a snicker. As pet names went, it was no worse than Lily naming her goldfish Lily. Or Al naming their first Krup _“Dammit, because you always say Dammit Albus Severus, right before you hug me when I’ve been naughty. So that must mean I love you. Right?”_

Harry hated to send Tweety Bird back empty talon’d. He wrote a short note and sent Tweety on her way.

_Good night, Malfoy_.

Harry smiled as he put the kettle on and tidied the kitchen. It had been a great day, the first one in a long time. Terrific practice. The kids on the team were such good kids. And this owl. He looked forward to seeing her...Maybe he needed a pet to share the flat with. Someone he could talk to. And maybe he should find a proper perch for owls, in case someone wanted to owl him.

~*~

Harry enjoyed starting his day with a visit from Tweety Bird and at least Malfoy had sent her a bit later in the morning. 

On Sunday, Draco wrote to ask if Harry had heard anything from Hermione. 

On Monday, he wrote to ask if Harry had heard anything from Hermione, and whether he preferred coffee or tea, just in case. 

On Tuesday, he wrote to ask if Harry had heard anything from Hermione, and _what was taking so long for her to respond if she had one of those Muggle mobile things._

Harry’s smile grew each day. Tuesday, he included his regular _we’ll hear from her when she has something to say_. As an afterthought, he added, _It’s going to work out. I’m sure of it._

During his seventh year class late that afternoon, when Harry was deep in lecture mode discussing which music streaming app was best, Scorpius interrupted, his voice wavering. “Professor Potter, there’s an owl at the window. It’s my dad’s owl--I don’t know why he’d be owling me during class…”

Without waiting for Harry’s approval, Scorpius opened the window. Tweety flew to the nearest table, dropped the letter, and nudged Scorpius’ hand for a treat. He ignored her, instead ripping open the envelope.

Scorpius smiled with relief. “It’s for _you_ , Professor.” The class tittered as Harry took the opened letter from Scorpius. He gave the note a quick read, then dismissed them early.

 

**Potter**

**I have an extra ticket for an art opening this evening. I’ve asked everyone else, and they’re busy. I wouldn’t normally ask you to step out of your element like this, but if you’re interested, you could tag along. Just don’t dress like a street urchin. We’ll meet at Café Loustic.**

 

Draco had included a ticket which provided the time and place. _Oh, he’d go. He’d go just to show Malfoy he knew how to clean up._

With a smile and a light step, Harry hurried to his flat to shower and change.

~*~

Harry apparated to the same location he’d used on Saturday. Draco had suggested they meet at the café since the art gallery was just around the corner, but when Harry landed, Draco was waiting at the apparition point.

Waiting was the wrong word.

Draco had been so focused on pacing, stopping to fix his shirt cuffs, pacing, fixing his black bow tie, that he didn’t hear the pop when Harry apparated. Draco looked ready to jump out of his tuxedo when Harry said _hello._

“You’re late.”

Harry sputtered out a denial knowing he was at least a quarter of an hour early, but Draco spoke over him. “At least you’re cleaned up and not wearing jeans.” He turned and strode toward the corner, leaving Harry speechless.

“Malfoy. Stop. Please.”

Draco stopped under the streetlamp, the glow reflecting from the high shine of his black shoes. “This is important to me. I don’t want to be late.”

Harry shrugged and caught up. He wasn’t wearing a tuxedo like Draco, but he knew his one tailored suit looked good, highlighting his shoulders and arse, his two best features. He held the door for Draco, who looked pale and almost like he might sick up.

When Harry entered the gallery, he understood. The sign on the easel just inside the door was written in French, but Harry easily read the words _Draco Malfoy._

Harry moved close enough to Draco to speak without being overheard. “Is this—yours?” He pointed at the art on the walls. Cityscapes. Florals. Pastorals.

Draco nodded curtly before pasting a smile on his pale face and leaving Harry’s side. Harry watched Draco’s transformation from hand-wringingly nervous to self-assured artist, in his element among his supporters.

Harry wandered the gallery, taking in the artwork and listening to several people arguing Malfoy’s talent. He knew nothing about art; he liked it or he didn’t. He didn’t know about brush strokes or depth or color pairing, but he wanted to be able to speak intelligently with Malfoy, so he listened to what the critics were saying.

 

_Old meets new. He looks at it completely differently…._  
He’s like Cezanne mixed with Andy Worhol...  
No. More it’s more like, if Andrew Lloyd-Webber composed with that American who writes the rap musicals. What’s-his-name. Lin-Manuel Miranda... 

 

Harry stared at the painting of a lush hillside, wildflowers moving with an unseen breeze. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw something fluttering into the left side of the painting’s cloudless blue sky. A butterfly looped and flew until it landed on a sunflower with pale pink petals. When he looked at the entire painting, he noticed that sheep had trekked the dirt road, kicking up dust on their pale pink wool.

He’d seen magical paintings where the subjects moved in grand gestures; they were all over Hogwarts’ walls. These paintings were subdued. Surprising. The subjects moved in small ways, changed almost imperceptibly.

If what Harry overheard all evening meant anything, Malfoy would be the talk of the _arrondissement._

Harry watched Draco work the room of possible patrons. He looked elegant in his Muggle clothing, at ease now that he could discuss his work. The dark tuxedo drew more attention to his fair hair and skin, and Harry thought Draco looked radiant.

Draco made his way back to Harry several times during the evening, bringing champagne with each visit. Harry would point to a canvas, and Draco explained his style and intent in words that were over Harry’s head, but he listened closely. 

It wasn’t the words. To be heard in the crowded gallery, Draco brought his mouth close to Harry’s ear. His warm breath tickled Harry’s neck as he spoke about his work. In a graveled voice, rougher than it had been, Draco explained that sometimes, he would caress the canvas with his brushes, long, slow strokes, losing hours to this passion. But sometimes, an image burned in him, set him on fire until he had to paint. Then his technique was shorter, faster, harder, more like he spanked the canvas with the bristles.

The voice and the words, the citrus scent of Draco’s shampoo, the champagne on his breath combined with the warm, firm hand pressing against the small of Harry’s back. Harry knew the champagne had filled his veins. He felt dizzy, as if he couldn’t catch his breath. He was burning and volatile and absolutely aroused from just Draco’s voice. 

“When I paint, sometimes it’s like a hard, fast fuck. It’s sweaty and visceral and immediate. That painting is of that moment. I couldn’t repeat it if I tried.” Draco gazed into Harry’s eyes. “But sometimes, it reveals itself to me, without hurry. It invites me to know it, to find what it needs. I know it’s cliché, but to me it feels like—” Draco’s cheeks flushed. “—It feels like making love.”

_Yes. Yes it did_. Harry’d closed his eyes as Draco spoke, and he swayed as the sensuous words washed over him as if he were the canvas. 

“I could—I see that,” Harry said, and at that moment, with Draco’s eyes searching his, the warmth of his hand, the rough gravel of his voice, Harry knew what it would be to have sex with Draco. His cock throbbed as it pressed against his flies, and he was absolutely sure that, if he heard one more word, he’d come in his pants. Hoping the dim lights would help conceal his hard cock, Harry excused himself, saying something garbled about the loo.

Harry locked the loo door. “Don’t think about it, don’t think about it,” he said, grasping the sink with both hands. But Harry replayed the words, hearing them in Draco’s voice. _Hard fast fuck...making love…_

Harry unzipped his trousers and pushed them away. His hands trembled as he pulled his cock out and spit into his palm. _Those words. That voice._ He wrapped his hand around his cock, and arched into the pull and pressure, the slick when he twisted his wrist. He imagined Draco’s body beneath him, stretched out on Harry’s bed, arching as Harry traced his muscles with his tongue. Each image merged with the music and his champagne blood…when Harry imagined his mouth closing around Draco’s cock, his body answered with a shudder as he spurted over his fist, Draco’s name on his lips. 

Harry’s pulse pounded as he tried to slow his breathing. He leaned against the sink because his legs were useless. He looked in the mirror, his face splotchy red. 

_France is too far…my son’s best friend’s father...God, I watched him almost bleed out because of me…he was my enemy—and my fantasy more nights than I want to admit…this is…this is…_

Harry hung his head and laughed. “Oh, I am so fucked.”

Draco’s face lit up when Harry returned to the near-empty gallery floor. Draco broke away from the couple he was speaking with to intercept Harry. “Okay, Potter?”

Harry’s stomach swooped and fluttered when he saw how pleased Draco was to see him. “Yeah, Malfoy. Better than okay.” Harry smiled, hoping Draco wouldn’t ask about his flushed face.

Draco touched Harry’s shoulder and dragged his hand down Harry’s arm. “Listen, I—I’m almost finished here. I’m a little high from adrenaline—” Draco shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and grinned. “Would you like to get a drink? I know it’s almost midnight, but—”

“Brilliant.” Harry’s cheeks ached from smiling. “Yeah. Sure.”

Draco said his good-byes all around, then offered Harry his elbow to side-along apparate. “It’s easier if I take us until you know the place.” 

With a twist on the spot, they were gone and when they landed, it wasn’t a café or a bar. Harry looked around the room, light walls, light colored curtains, with pillows and throws in funky shades of pink and green. They probably had real names to Draco, like, Sunrise-over-the-Seine-Pink or something, but to Harry, they just looked as weird. But nice.

“Malfoy, is this your house?”

From somewhere further into the flat, Malfoy’s sarcasm drifted back to Harry. “No. I thought we’d go to the woods. Of course it’s my house.”

Harry followed the voice to the kitchen. Draco rummaged through the cabinets searching for something to snack on. Instead, he withdrew a bottle from his wine refrigerator. 

“It’s really nice here. I could use your help decorating my flat. I’ve been there for 10 years, and I feel like I never really settled in,” Harry said as he took in the modern kitchen, all straight lines and bright white. And the table, painted the same pink from the living room, which should have been wrong for a kitchen table, but instead it was beautiful

“Sure, Potter. How about tomorrow?” Draco caught Harry off guard, as he placed a bottle of wine and two goblets on the table. “Oh that’s right. _I. Can’t._ ”

Draco’s forehead wrinkled as he frowned, and Harry thought he’d really ticked him off. Then Draco looked at Harry’s wide eyes and dropped jaw and laughed until he grasped the table. “You should see your face, Potter. You looked like you were going to cry.”

“Did not.” Harry spoke through gritted teeth, until he gave up and joined in laughing.

They sat at the puce-colored table (Draco corrected Harry’s use of pink) and shared Pinot Noir. Harry told what little he’d heard from Hermione so far. She was banking on a sympathetic ear in the Wizengamot who was willing to listen.

Draco tipped his glass toward Harry’s. “Here’s to seeing Scorpius at Hogwarts before he leaves.” He swirled his wine carefully in his glass. “Scorpius talks about Al all the time. He’s rarely made friends, but Al and he are inseparable. Scorpius has brought him here a few times when they had a free weekend.”

“I hope he behaved?” Harry quirked a half-smile, already knowing the answer. 

“No better than you would have, Potter.” Draco teased Harry easily, even if Harry rolled his eyes. “I’ll be honest. I had misgivings when I heard the name. But Scorpius always spoke so highly of him, and he’s a good kid.”

This time, Harry laughed. People usually described Albus Severus as mischievous. Snarky. Pain In the Arse. “I’m glad you thought so.” Harry wiped his eyes. When he could speak, he asked, “Do you think they’re—I mean are they—”

Draco studied his wine. “I don’t know. I think so. But you see them more often.”

“I don’t know either.” Harry removed his jacket and his tie, unbuttoning the shirt enough to breathe more comfortably. Draco watched Harry’s hands remove the tie, unbutton the shirt. “Ginny and I have always accepted the kids for who they are. We’ve told them we love who they are. I kind of thought if Al were gay, he would’ve told me.”

“I honestly don’t know about Scorpius, either. He’s never shown interest in anyone before.” Draco pushed his chair away from the table and swayed a moment as he stood. “Be right back.” 

Harry wondered just how much Draco’d had to drink all night. He picked up the wine bottle, surprised to find it empty; he had no idea they’d drunk that much. 

Draco returned wearing pyjama bottoms and a _Quidditch World Cup 1994_ t-shirt. It was entirely too small now. “Is that why you divorced? Because you’re bisexual?”

Harry hadn’t spoken to many people about their divorce; with enough ugliness and hurt feelings on both sides, Harry felt it was better left private. He had no desire to see any of them dragged through the newspaper’s muck. 

He intended to reiterate the standard _We grew apart and wanted different things from life._ But when he spoke, when he realized Draco was interested in what he had to say and not from some salacious need for gossip, the truth spilled out. 

Harry sighed as he sorted out where to begin. “It’s a long story, and it’s hard to tell without sounding like an idiot or a martyr.”

“I promise, Potter. I’ll let you know if you sound like either.” Draco grinned as he sat back in his chair to listen. 

Draco laced his fingers behind his head, and the shirt pulled tight across his chest, rode up on his flat stomach. Harry dragged his gaze away, but landed on Draco’s bare ankle and tried not to follow it to the gap at the cotton sleep-trousers’ flies. He shifted himself in the chair, to relieve some pressure on his cock, which was definitely interested in where the trail of coarse, fair hair on Draco’s abdomen led.

Harry cleared his throat. “Ginny and I barely knew each other romantically when I left to find Voldemort. When I returned, people had all these expectations. That I’d marry Ginny and have kids. That I’d become an Auror. So I did. Really quickly I found out I hated my job. Ginny and I were okay enough. We were at least friends. But I came home from work every night angry and nasty, and I couldn’t handle the kids whining or Ginny complaining.”

Harry took their glasses to the sink and rinsed them to give himself a break. When he returned to the table, he smiled with a shrug. “So I worked longer hours to avoid my family, and when I couldn’t work, I’d sleep. Ginny and I went months without having sex.

“When Professor McGonagall offered me the Muggle Studies position, I thought it might be a way for us to start again. Ginny tried, but she hated being at Hogwarts. She said it felt like going backward. Within six months, we agreed it was best to separate. I don’t think Ginny even knew I was bi until after we were divorced. I'm pretty sure the kids still don't know.”

“Astoria figured it out eventually,” Draco offered, after a pause. “I was never interested in women romantically. By the time I came to Hogwarts, I was certain I was gay. But I never could have told Lucius. He was hell bent on continuing the family name. I thought I could be happy with her if I tried hard enough. I courted her and told her my values kept me from having sex before we were married.”

Harry listened without interrupting, glad that Draco felt he could share this.

“Once we were married, we had sex enough times to produce an heir. Honestly, I’m not sure how that even happened. I can’t do vaginal sex. It’s too—wet, not tight enough. And her body felt wrong under my fingers. Curved and soft where it should have been hard and flat.”

Harry knew. Grabbing thin, hard hips as he thrusted into them felt different than wide, lush hips.

“Once she was pregnant, I begged off, swearing I didn’t want to hurt her or the baby. After Scorpius was born, she finally asked. She wasn’t angry, just hurt. Astoria moved out, and Scorpius shared us. We’re good friends. She’s married again and has several children with her new husband.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully at Draco’s revelations. “I’m sorry you felt you had to go through that. I know you would do it all again for Scorpius—”

“That child is the best thing in the world. And he’s lucky to have Astoria for a mother.” Draco blinked hard as he looked up and away from Harry.

Harry didn’t know what to say; this was so personal. If it were Ron, he would have grabbed him into a hug. Instead, he tapped Malfoy’s ankle with his toe.

“Is that why you didn’t you send Scorpius to _Beauxbaton’s_? So he could be near Astoria?”

Draco sighed and reached for the wine’s cork. He picked at it, plucking the pieces off and flicking them away. “Partly, yes. But y’know. Hogwarts was the best home I’d ever had, regardless of how badly I fucked it up.”

Harry didn’t hold back that time. He stood and took the cork from Draco’s hand, and pulled him up and into a hug. For a moment, Draco buried his face in Harry’s neck and Harry slipped his hand into Draco’s soft hair. 

Draco made the most delicious, unexpected sound when Harry’s fingertips brushed his scalp. Draco drew back, and his eyes were dark and heavy as he looked up at Harry. “Stay tonight.”

Draco pressed the tip of his nose against Harry’s cheekbone, traced it to the corner of Harry’s mouth, but didn’t move further. “It’s almost 3 am. You’ll have to walk from Hogsmeade to the castle. It isn’t safe.”

“I can’t.” Harry brushed his nose against Draco’s, sharing the same air as they breathed. He wanted to taste the Pinot Noir on Draco’s lips. Wanted all of him. And knew that they were meant for each other. “I can’t. I know there’s something, Draco, and I don’t want to mess it up.”

Draco nodded and brought his mouth to Harry’s ear. “You’re stupid.” 

“Yeah. I know.” Harry sighed as he stepped away. He slid his arms back into his suit jacket and shoved his tie into his pocket. “And when we win, we’ll--. I negotiated for the right to have my own wards. I can disapparate in and out of my flat, no matter how many times Hermione says it’s not possible.”

He moved back toward Draco. “You know, Malfoy. You’re not as big a git as you used to be.”

He cupped Draco’s face with both his hands. Draco closed his eyes and sighed as Harry’s thumbs stroked his cheekbones. Harry brushed his lips over Draco’s, feeling the shiver run through both of them. “Thank you for inviting me.”

Harry gently kissed Draco one more time, and as he disapparated, he saw Draco trailing his fingers over his lips. His eyes were still closed.


	4. No Phone Can Take Your Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione presents their petition.

_“Harry, they’ve agreed to hear Draco’s case! But it has to be this Friday.”_

Hermione’s frantic, frazzled voice pierced the chaos of Wednesday’s dinner in the Great Hall.

Harry held his mobile away from his ear as he pushed his way through the exodus of students leaving dinner. Looking for quiet, he ducked into an empty classroom which dulled the noise enough for him to hear Hermione.

“In two days, Friday?” Harry asked, scrabbling through the teacher’s desk for parchment and quill. “Damn, there’s nothing to write with.”

Hermione sighed in exasperation. “Harry. Put me on speaker and use your notepad app.”

When he was ready, she rattled off item after item that they’d need to mount their case. Harry’s shoulders tightened with each new entry to the list until he finally cut her off.

“I have to ring you back, but it might be a quarter hour or more.” Harry was already hurrying through the maze of hallways to his flat before he ended the call.

Once through his front door, he dropped his robe onto the floor, grabbed his satchel and twisted on the spot, hoping he could fix the destination clearly in his mind.

Harry apparated in front of a puce-colored door; this had to be it. Who the fuck else would have a puce door? He groaned, realizing he now thought of it as puce. He knocked, and when no one responded, Harry tried again. Draco opened the door as Harry’s knuckles would have hit the wood, almost knocking Draco’s nose.

“Come here to pound me?” Draco asked with a grin.

Harry spent too much time around prepubescent boys. He tried to say something witty, but instead laughed filthily at the unintended double entendre.

“Really, Potter?” Draco opened the door, ushering Harry in. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

The room looked different in the twilight, more colorful, more playful. The single large window overlooked the city, and Harry saw lights coming on in homes around the city and the sun changing the colors of the sky minute by minute, changing the colors in the room, minute by minute.

“Wow.” Harry stood at the window, watching the city beneath him.

“Yes. Very wow. So eloquent,” Draco teased Harry, whose eyes grew wide in surprise. 

“How do you know Doge?” Harry grabbed his bag from where he’d dropped it and found his way to the kitchen.

Draco trailed after and watched him dump the contents of his bag onto the kitchen table looking for a rectangular box. “Which doge? Why are you speaking Italian?”

Harry held up a white box and turned to Draco. “It’s not Italian. It’s a meme.”

“It’s Italian for leader, and now you’re speaking rubbish with your ‘meeeeem’, Potter.” Draco air-quoted _meeeeem._ “And why are you here?” Draco stood with his arms crossed over his chest. “Not that you’re not a welcome surprise—” 

Harry realized he’d interrupted Draco, who’d been painting. His shirt was splotched with vibrant paint stains and possibly coffee dribbled down the front. He held two small, thin paint brushes between his fingers. 

“Are you busy? I should have firecalled first—” Harry said, dropping the box onto the table and jamming the papers back into his bag so he could leave.

They spoke over each other, but Draco pressed his hand on Harry’s, stopping him from shoving the final few essays in with the others. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m glad you’re here.”

The deep wrinkles on Harry’s forehead disappeared as he smiled at Draco. He liked the pressure of Draco’s hand on his, the warmth. “Hermione needs information,” he said simply. Harry asked Draco to bring a piece of parchment and a quill while he rang Hermione back.

Harry put the call on speaker, and when Hermione answered, she jumped in where she had left off. “We’re going to need the exact dates you petitioned. Does Draco have copies of the original letters? And I need them—well, yesterday. Plus—”

Draco had no idea where Granger’s voice came from or how he was supposed to communicate. Unsure, he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted into the air. “It’s not that I’m not grateful, but what’s going on?”

“We’ve been granted an emergency meeting of the Subcommittee on War Crimes but if it’s not this Friday, they can’t meet with you until September.” Hermione barely stopped long enough for Draco to take in the information. “We’ll also need a copy of the purchase record for Draco’s flat or copies of his leases. We’ll need names and addresses for his employers and…”

Hermione listed items for almost five minutes while Draco and Harry copied the information down. “Now both of you will need to wear the most conservative robes you own. Nice shoes, no trainers. Harry, it’s best to leave your Muggle technology home. I’ll expect your owl or emails as soon as you can pull information together.” 

Once Hermione rang off, Harry’s head spun from the amount of information and the lack of time. They’d need weeks to gather this. He turned to Draco to ask him where to start, but Draco had left the kitchen.

Fearing he’d find Draco immobilized from stress, Harry followed the soft sound of Draco’s voice, which led him to the studio. Harry felt the creative energy surround him as he stepped into the room. Everything seemed brighter, more vibrant, more alive. 

Draco had created paintings on the walls--dragonflies flitting over a slow river; a Great Horned owl flying overhead, its wingspan obscuring the painted sun; a red fox lapping from the river. 

On the opposite wall, Draco had painted a Quidditch match. Harry watched the crowd rise and fall as it cheered as a Bludger nearly knocked the Gryffindor seeker from his broom. The sun’s ray fractured as it glittered off his round glasses, blinding him; the Slytherin seeker edged toward the Snitch, capturing it in his hand.

“This must have taken months to complete.” Harry walked closer to the wall, touching the players as they flew. He turned to Draco who was attempting to appear preoccupied with searching for something in a desk hidden away in the corner of the studio. “Is that you and me?”

His head still down over his desk intent on what he was looking for, Draco swallowed hard and nodded. Harry watched the blush creep up his neck. _Adorable._

“It’s amazing. The detail is incredible.” Harry’s nose was almost touching the wall, looking at the tiny details. “There’s only one problem. No way you’d beat me to the Snitch.”

A wadded ball of parchment hit Harry in the back of the head, and Harry laughed. To make his way back to Draco’s desk, Harry picked his way around easels with canvases in various stages of completion and across the floor littered with artist detritus-- discarded preliminary sketches, balled-up failures, empty paint tubes. 

Harry leaned against a makeshift table that Draco used to make his canvases. Bolts of canvas, empty easels, and frames waiting for canvas were stacked neatly waiting for Draco to return. 

“Merlin, this committee wants so much information. Do you have any idea where we could even find some of this stuff Hermione’s asking for?” Harry asked as Draco stood and grabbed his wand.

“Can you make a good cup of tea, Potter? We’re going to need it tonight.” Draco pointed his wand at a filing cabinet and headed out of the room. “Come along, Potter.” The filing cabinet followed, floating several inches off the floor.

Once in the kitchen, Draco lowered the filing cabinet next to the puce table as Harry put the kettle on. Harry searched for mugs; his faded Rolling Stones t-shirt rode up as he reached into the cabinet to grab two.

Draco surprised Harry, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist. “You kissed and left the other night.” Draco brushed his nose against Harry’s ear, and Harry exhaled slowly leaning into the touch.

“It’s so soon. I don’t want to make the same mistake again,” Harry whispered, his eyes closed. He concentrated on his words, pretending to ignore the electricity between their bodies.

Draco asked Harry to turn until they were face to face. “I’ve known you all my life--”

“But not like _this._ ” Harry’s words dissolved into a low moan as Draco pressed into Harry’s thigh. Harry felt the full length of Draco’s erection; he grabbed the hem of his shirt so he wouldn’t reach for it. 

Draco slid his hands along Harry’s cheeks, feeling the shadow of whiskers growing. “I believe you can know immediately. I believe in fairy tales, Potter.” 

Draco kissed the corner of Harry’s mouth, kissed his jaw where his thumb caressed it. Harry’s heart seemed to freeze, and then as Draco kissed down the line of Harry’s neck, it began again pounding instead of simply beating. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” Draco brushes his mouth over Harry’s and hesitates. “You’re worth waiting for.”

Harry answers Draco’s kisses, dragging his hands over Draco’s back, his sides, over his chest where the nipples push at the fabric. 

“We are.” 

The kettle whistled shrilly, breaking them apart. Draco poured the tea while Harry rooted in his bag. As Draco placed the tea on the table, Harry shoved a small box at Draco. “I brought you an iPhone 6w. The W means Wizard. We can reach each other this way; I thought it would be easier on poor Tweety Bird. And this way, you could text Hermione, too.”

For the next hour, Draco forgot about the tea and the supporting documents that Hermione needed; instead, he insisted that Harry show him every feature. _Show me how to send a text. Wait. What’s a text? It takes pictures? But they don’t move. I can talk to someone through this? Well, that does seem easier than sticking my head in a fire._

Once Draco had texted Hermione a dozen times, learned how to insert an emoji, and sexted her with only Emojis, he was ready to get down to work. Harry’s stomach hurt from laughing at Draco and with Draco at Hermione, who was rapidly losing her patience with them texting her eggplants and droplets of water.

**Do you have any actual information to give me!?!?! I have to go to bed.**

Draco wiped the tears from his face and caught his breath. “You are a horrible influence, Potter.”

“I’m an excellent influence. Just ask Scorpius.” Harry grinned as he picked up one of the folders Draco slapped on the table.

And in the amount of time it took Draco to unload the filing cabinet, he had everything Hermione asked for, neatly separated into their own files. Harry took a picture and told Hermione she’d have them in her hands the next morning.

Then Harry moved his chair next to Draco as close as he could, wrapping his right arm around Draco’s shoulder. In a second, Harry’d snapped a selfie and sent that along, too.

He showed Draco the photo. “I like that,” Draco said as he looked at the picture. “Can you...text?... it to me?”

Harry high-fived Draco for using the words correctly, and when Draco’s mobile pinged with the text, Draco stared at it. He scrunched his forehead and bit his lips as he…saved it. Opened his Photo app…Selected the photo (the only one he had saved so far) …And set it as his lock screen.

Draco held out his mobile so Harry could see what he’d done, giving Harry a toothy grin. “I did it!”

Harry kissed Draco in congratulations, a light kiss that became demanding and intense as their hands explored each other. “Fuck,” Harry gasped, breathing heavily as his cock throbbed against the rough cotton of his boxer shorts. “You feel incredible. I--don’t want to stop.” He kissed Draco, pressing their tongues together, wanting to pull their shirts off, get naked.  
.  
“Harry, we’re adults.” Draco said, holding his palm against Harry’s cheek. “You want to wait, so we’ll wait.” Harry nodded as he kissed Draco lightly. 

Draco broke the kiss, backed away from Harry. “Go home, Potter. I have work to do. So do you,” he said as he pointed toward the stack of folders. 

Harry slid the documents into his satchel and slid it over his shoulder. Before he left, he turned back to Draco and pulled him into one last slow, indulgent kiss.

“Text me,” Harry said, and as he disapparated, he saw Draco blow him a kiss.

~*~

“I’m going to sick up.”

“No.” Harry fussed with Draco’s bow tie, which wasn’t really crooked. “You’re going to be amazing. And when it’s over, we’ll go to London.” He fixed the shoulders of Draco’s robes and then brushed the wrinkles from his own.

Draco smiled wanly, but Hermione bustled over cutting him off. “This is a small committee. You know some of the people, like Susan Bones and Anthony Goldstein. Just answer their questions honestly.”

Ron ran down the hallway, his maroon Auror robe billowing behind him. Panting, he bent over, resting his hands on his knees. “I got here as soon as I could. That arrest took longer than—”

Hermione pulled him upright and pecked his cheek. “Be quiet, Ron.”

“Yes, dear.” Ron rolled his eyes, but followed her orders.

They were interrupted again by voices floating down the hallway. Scorpius, Albus (for moral support), and a striking woman holding an infant met them in front of the chamber doors.

“You must be Harry. I’m Astoria Zabini.” The woman smiled; she extended her hand to Harry as she passed the baby to Scorpius. “My first grandson.”

Smiling, Draco kissed her cheek. “Stop lying, Astoria. You are not old enough to be a grandmother, because that would make me old enough to be a grandfather.”

Astoria spoke about a complex pure-blood family tree, people Harry’d never heard of. Instead, he watched Draco’s genuine smile, his loose shoulders. Watched Al, who’d convinced Scorpius to let him hold the baby, who squealed as he tried to grab Al’s curls. 

Hermione interrupted Astoria to explain the proceedings. The Subcommittee would hear from Hermione first. Ron would address Draco’s exemplary behavior. Scorpius and then Astoria would speak about Draco’s character. Harry would wield whatever power he had to show that he supported Draco. Finally, the committee would speak with Draco.

“If we’re lucky, we’ll know before the end of the Hogwarts’ term.” Hermione shrugged, as if it say, _we can only expect so much_.

Only Hermione noticed the chamber door opened; the others were laughing at the baby who giggled and kept calling Scorpius _Dada_.

Hermione entered the chamber and returned a scant few minutes later, clenching her fists. “Draco, they want to speak with you.”

“Don’t let this throw you.” Harry smiled and kissed Draco. “You’ll be brilliant.”

As Draco walked into the chamber, five pair of eyes stared at Harry. Like slow motion, Harry clapped his hand over his mouth as he realized he’d outed his relationship. He waited for the comments, whatever they might be. 

“Oh. My. God.” Albus said, irritation clear in his tone. “Great, dad. Just great. Scorpius said you both had it bad but I said, _no. they can’t stand each other._ ”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of Galleons and dropped them in Scorpius’ open palm. “Thank you very much,” Scorpius said with a smug smile. 

Trying to hide his own smile, Albus turned to Harry. “You owe me five Galleons to replace the ones I lost.”

Harry’s face flushed as he hung his head, mortified.

Hermione interrupted the teasing, pulling Harry and Scorpius aside. “They only want to speak with Draco. I don’t know what that means. I’m completely lost. Kingsley said they’d listen—” Hermione grimaced when she realized she’d revealed her source on the inside. “Dammit.”

Scorpius hesitated then hugged Hermione. “Thank you for what you’ve done, Ms. Weasley. Whatever they decide, it will be fine.” He smiled and returned to Albus, who handed the baby back to Astoria.

They disappeared around the corner; Harry suspected Scorpius was telling Al what Hermione had told them. He decided to offer whatever insight he could. He couldn’t hear them.

As he turned the corner, they were wrapped in each other. Al’s hands framed Scorpius’ face as they rested their foreheads together. “It’s ok, Stinger,” Al whispered. “We’ll figure it out together. Love you.”

Scorpius nodded, and Harry saw the tears on his face. Al kissed Scorpius gently, still holding him.

Harry backed away, hoping neither saw him. When they returned to the group, Harry noticed no sign that Scorpius had ever cried. He stole the baby from his mother and kissed his belly until he squealed.

Draco exited the chambers, walking slowly, shoulders down. “That’s it. They said we’ll receive an owl as soon as they’ve decided. And before you ask, they have no idea how long it will take.”

The group protested loudly in the hallway. _Unfair. More information. Wanted to support him._ “Perhaps the documents spoke for themselves,” Hermione said, quieting the group. Eventually, they drifted apart, saying good-bye and returning to their day. 

“Let’s go home, Potter.” Draco smiled weakly as he took Harry’s hand. “It’s ok. We’ll figure it out, right?”

Harry smiled. _Yeah. They’d figure it out._

They apparated to the café, but neither felt like being surrounded by people. Instead, they walked in quiet as Draco showed Harry around the neighborhood. His favorite used book store. The small gallery where he had his first show. A restaurant he said was his favorite. “We can go there this weekend.”

Harry grinned at Draco’s assumption that they would still spend the weekend together. He liked it.

Bringing them back to his flat, Draco drew down the wards and held the door open for Harry. He was already unzipping his formal robes when he stepped into his flat. “I’m going to change. Do you want to see if I have anything that’ll fit you?”

Harry removed his robe and threw it over the couch. He checked the robe’s pockets for his mobile, before remembering he’d left it in Draco’s kitchen before the proceedings. It buzzed furiously on the counter. Six missed calls and text after text from Hermione.

**CALL ME.**

**CALL ME.**

**CALL ME. NOW.**

**WHERE *THE FUCK* ARE YOU.**

**CALL. ME.**

~*~

“I found a t-shirt and these flannel sleep trousers. They may be a bit long, but I think—” Draco stopped mid-sentence as Harry stood stiff in the doorway, his mouth slack. “Is it because I don’t have a shirt on? Are you speechless from my manly physique?”

Harry shook his head, ignoring the comment. “Hermione called me with the decision. They--”

Draco dropped the clothes on the floor as he reached for Harry’s mobile. “Is it bad? Did they already decide? They said no, didn’t they. It’s fine. Fine. At least something good came from this--”

Harry grabbed Draco around the waist and spun them around. “They said yes; they revoked the exile.” Harry kissed Draco in celebration until Draco backed away. 

He collapsed in the chair next to the bedroom doorway. Speechless, he stuttered as he tried to speak until he buried his face in his hands. Draco’s shoulders shook as he cried. Harry knelt at his feet and crooned to Draco that it would be wonderful to be back in England. That they’d get proper scones. A decent cuppa. Bangers and mash. Watch a real footie. Harry held Draco until he had no more tears. 

“I can go home,” Draco said, his eyes glimmering with tears. “I can see Scorpius at Hogwarts.”

Joy overtook Harry, the lightness like a bubble in his chest threatening to burst. “I have an idea.”

“Well, do share before it dies of loneliness.” Draco’s voice was flat with boredom until Harry tickled him.

“Let’s go to my flat. Because you know what? You can do that.” 

Draco padded to the closet for something more presentable than cotton sleep trousers. “I have a better idea,” he said as he dragged his shirt over his head. “Let’s go knock on the Slytherin house door. Ask for Scorpius.”

Draco laughed as he slipped on his socks and trainers. Harry watched him, the grace of his movements, the song of his laughter and knew.

“I’m so, so fucked,” Harry said under his breath as Draco smiled at him. And he’d never been happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you liked this iteration of Scorpius and Albus, Subscribe to me, and I'll have another fic this summer about these two figuring things out. It's a prequel to this fic.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebration at Hogwarts at the end of Al/Scorpius' 7th year. June 2024

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *i groaned when I learned that UK schools don't have graduation ceremonies like US schools do; that was a primary focus for the prompt in the gift-fest. So, pretend with me that Hogwarts has a recognition ceremony at the end of the students' 7th year.

“Potter, can you hurry for once in your life? We’re going to be late.” Draco stood at the open door to Harry’s flat. Jubilant students walked by on the way to the end of the year celebration. “If you make me miss the Potions Award presentation—”

“I was dressed. You said I had too many clothes on, undressed me and performed unspeakable acts on me. _I’m_ not the reason.” Harry walked from the bedroom, his shoes a high shine and pressed trousers showing from underneath his rarely-worn faculty robe.

“ _You You You._ It’s always about you.” Draco huffed and pulled Harry out the door, spelling it locked. “If we’re late, I’m blaming you and telling them why.”

“Oh, make sure you do.” Harry laughed. “Tell them how you were on your knees tonguing my hole while tossing off.” The filthy words that he’d just whispered in public—Harry thanked Merlin he was wearing a robe.

“I did no such thing,” Draco sputtered.

His flaming face told a different story.

Harry raised an eyebrow and grinned as he mercifully changed the topic. “We haven’t stayed at the Paris flat much this week. We should go there tonight and let the boys use this one to celebrate.” 

“They still think we have no idea?” Draco laughed loudly, and several students who passed them stared.

“None.” Harry waited until he and Draco were seated in the Great Hall to continue. “I was thinking—“

Draco opened his mouth to interrupt, but Harry interrupted him. “I know—die of loneliness.” Harry took a breath to steady himself. “I know it’s only been a month, but since you’re here all the time anyway, maybe you should just move in.”

Draco’s smile grew as Harry fumbled his way through the proposition. “There are a few things here I want to paint. The Whomping Willow. The lake—” Draco lowered his voice and moved closer to Harry. “—And you. I have some new edible body paints that are beautiful colors. They’ll look gorgeous on you.”

Harry moaned at Draco’s charged words. He covered his mouth and knew he was bright red. Thank Merlin for the applause for the seventh year students filing into the room.

“Let’s talk about it over breakfast in bed tomorrow night,” Draco said as they stood to applaud.

“Breakfast in bed tomorrow _night_?” Harry moved closer to Draco’s ear so he wouldn’t have to yell over the noise to be heard.

Draco huffed in exasperation. “The students go home today. You don’t teach tomorrow. You have no reason to get out of bed…” 

Harry grinned and squeezed Draco’s hand. “I’ll give you no reason to get out of bed.” He waggled his eyebrows in what he hoped was a leer. They sat in folding chairs, thighs pressed together, hips touching. For once, Harry didn’t mind being part of a crowd.

Draco rolled his eyes so hard, Harry thought everyone in the Great Hall had seen. “That makes no sense, Potter.” 

“ _You_ make no sense, Malfoy.” Harry’s grin was ridiculously wide, because that was stupid and he was happy. “But you’re mine.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. Just watch the ceremony.” Draco squeezed his hand again and brought their hands to his lap. 

Harry pretended to watch Headmistress McGonagall speak, but really, he was just watching Draco. _I’ll remind you. Every. Single. Day_.


End file.
